You did it. You lost weight and feel amazing. Invincible, untouchable, and so the trouble begins.
I know. It’s happened to me at least twenty times. I’ve been battling my weight since I was nine years old. I’m thirty-nine this year. I’ve gone on at least twenty diets, lost and regained hundreds of pounds.
In 2017, I was 180 lbs. Our life was messy. Like, eat your stress messy.
I would go through the day periodically reminding myself to breathe. I have a habit of holding my breath to manage the anxiety pumping through my body.
Our finances where a…
Watching your children make bad decisions is hard.
There hasn’t been one time that I’ve kicked back and thought — Way to go! Make sure you fail really good — make a complete and udder disaster. Well done.
Instead, I find myself hovering.
When my children were little, I would take them to the playground and stand behind them so that if they fell, I would be there to catch them. I wanted them to climb and have fun, but I didn’t want them to get hurt.
My job as a parent is to protect them, to keep them safe.
My sister was going out of town and asked if I could watch her dog for the weekend. “Sure, no problem. It’ll be fun,” I replied as I looked down at my dog, Petey, already anticipating the backlash of this decision.
Petey was a chihuahua crossed with jack russell terrier. He was eight pounds going on eighty and fiercely protective. He gave everyone and every dog a fair shake, but if he didn’t like you, there was no going back.
Once, my dad walked up the stairs to my house, and Petey jumped and bit at his crotch. …
“Smoothies are ready,” I call out.
My nine-year-old daughter appears, takes a drag from one of the straws and disappears with both glasses in hand. Walking carefully through the dining room and down three stairs, she delivers breakfast to her brother, perched on the edge of the ottoman in the middle of the living room playing a video game.
With her eyes glued to the tv screen, she puts her smoothie down on the second wood-surfaced ottoman and gently tugs the piece of furniture toward her brother.
“Don’t tell me you spilled your smoothie!?” I growl.
As I was perusing my Facebook feed this morning, I noticed a post from inside a private group of 75 people. An invitation.
Who’s up for a hike and some yoga afterward? Kids are invited — of course. Smiley face emoji.
I sat and stared at the screen for a long while. What? Seriously?
Yoga and fitness studios in our area have all recently closed due to the Covid-19 pandemic.
They will suffer financial hardship because of this closure, and if you know anything about small businesses, you know that most of them are holding on by a thread. …
The first time someone called me chubby I was six-years-old. My first diet was around ten.
I have spent the last thirty years either on a diet, finding a new diet or hating myself because I am NOT on a diet.
You’d think three decades would be enough time to lose weight. You’d think that Weight Watchers, the Southbeach Diet, or Whole 30 would have made it happen. And although some of these diets got me close, I always gained the weight back — and then some.
Not one of them took off all the weight. …
With my three-year-old son resting on my hip, I push open the thick wooden door leading into our favourite book store. My purse slips from my shoulder and I grab at the straps as my son wiggles and struggles to get down. Resembling a performer juggling cats, I relent and put him on the ground.
“Wyler — stay with mommy,” I say as his eyes widen and his feet start moving. I reach down and firmly hold his hand.
His freedom may have been restricted but that doesn’t slow his feet. Using every one of his 38 pounds, he tries…
My alarm rings out, piercing my dream like a needle to a balloon. I sit up in bed, taking a moment to adjust before tossing the white duvet back and placing my feet on the cold laminate floor. Shivering, I cross the room and hit snooze on the alarm clock. Taking two huge leaps back, I jump into bed, pulling the covers over me in one fluid motion.
So much for the alarm-clock-across-the-room-trick getting me out of bed. I suppose it worked. Although more like a washed-up salesman — great pitch, shitty closing.
I lie in bed, eyes closed, soaking…
My hand slides across the crisp sheets, slices beneath the blanket as I roll onto my side. Only a sliver of light bleeds in from the black, triple weave, panel curtains. A dense pain drives through my left eye to the back of my skull. My fingers escape the warmth of the bed to press on the skin just above my eyebrow, desperate to alleviate the pressure.
Rolling onto my back my white cotton t-shirt bunches and twists around my body. My eyes flicker open and I exhale a heavy breath.
Opening and closing my mouth, my tongue moves up…
I was young, wild — and completely out of control.
Sober living wasn’t an intentional choice for me in the beginning. I woke one morning in 2006 after driving home completely wasted and realized I had a problem.
I am an intelligent person. I know driving drunk is stupid. But when I get drunk, I don’t care. In fact, I don’t care about a lot of things.
And maybe that was the appeal of drinking because when I wasn’t drinking, I cared A LOT. I cared all the time, about everything.
But that feeling the next morning after I’d driven…